


Our Love Is Like Water

by denorios



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-31
Updated: 2010-08-31
Packaged: 2017-10-11 09:15:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/110801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/denorios/pseuds/denorios
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames loves to wake up with Arthur in his arms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Love Is Like Water

**Author's Note:**

> My first Inception fic, and it's pure schmoop. *facepalms* With a side-helping of Eames-angst, but still. Pure schmoop.

Eames loves to wake up with Arthur in his arms. It's a rare occurrence, and each time he treasures it like it's the first time and the last. He's fallen asleep with him so many times, curled around him, palm pressed to Arthur's stomach, face turned into his hair, but whenever he wakes, no matter how early, Arthur is almost never there.

It's almost become a game, but he doesn't think he and Arthur are playing by the same rules, and perhaps it's not even the same game. Eames will stay awake long after Arthur has fallen asleep, willing his eyes to remain open, so that when he feels Arthur begin to stir with the dawn he can hold onto his wrist and pull back him, wrap around him and keep him close. But there's always a moment when he blinks, and sometimes it is only a moment, and Arthur is up and gone, and the only sign he was ever there is the warmth left by his body and the emptiness of Eames' arms.

Sometimes Arthur is simply standing by the picture windows, half-dressed and barefoot, watching the sun rise over Central Park and nursing the first coffee of the morning, and Eames will follow him, wrap his arms around Arthur's waist, press his face into his neck and just breathe in the scent of sun-warmed skin and sweat.

Sometimes he's in the kitchen, and Eames will prop himself in the doorway and watch him as he makes coffee and cooks bacon, humming softly to himself. When Arthur turns Eames can't help but smile until Arthur flushes and ducks his head and his ungelled hair falls in his eyes, and Eames has to move to him and push it aside and kiss him and kiss him and kiss him until neither can breathe.

Some mornings he's only so far away as the end of the bed, watching with a wry smile as Eames stirs and mumbles, running a gentle hand over Eames' bed-tousled hair before leaning down to kiss him awake. It's always a quick kiss, almost perfunctory, and Eames has to curl his palm around Arthur's neck and hold him there, smiling against Arthur's lips until Arthur sighs and opens his mouth.

Eames likes to kiss slowly, deeply. He likes long patient kisses that don't start anything, don't lead anywhere, just touching for the sake of touching, mouths and tongues and warm sweet breath. He likes it best early in the morning, when the sun is barely awake, and he's still dreamy and half-asleep and there's no urgency, and he can touch and taste.

He likes to pull Arthur back to the bed and pin him down, trail his mouth lazily down Arthur's neck to his collarbone, leaving wet kisses and small bites to mark his passage, and then lay his ear over Arthur's heart and listen. Arthur asks him what he hears, and Eames says "just you, darling", and closes his eyes.

Arthur will always come back to bed when Eames asks, always, but there are times when it feels like a favour and Eames wishes he didn't have to ask. He wishes he could wake up and feel Arthur's soft exhales against his skin, the heavy slumbering weight of him against his chest, the soft prickle of the hair on Arthur's legs as they rub and tangle with his own.

He can't help but feel that Arthur doesn't trust him, that on some deep subconscious level, so deep he can't even read him in the dreams, he simply doesn't trust him. Arthur is content to let him into his life, his home, his mind, his body, but he guards his heart jealously, and no matter how hard Eames tries he can't seem to reach him.

And yet Arthur is here. He's here, and Eames knows that's not something he should take lightly. He pushed and pushed and pushed with Arthur, touching, teasing, flirting, endearments and blown kisses, filth whispered low and private so only Arthur could hear, small gifts and notes, and it was only half in jest. He pushed and pushed and he never expected Arthur to give, and it was so sudden he half-feels as though he's still pole-axed, still flat on his face, blinking in shock.

Every morning when he awakens and the bed beside him is empty, he thinks, now, now, this is the time, this time he's gone, it's over, and when he rises and finds Arthur at the window or in the kitchen it's always a surprise, and if sometimes he kisses Arthur to hide his relief he can't be blamed.

Eames never expected to fall. He's left broken hearts from Mumbai to Vladivostok, crushed hopes and shattered expectations trailing behind him like a shadow, and he never expected to fall. But he did, and he fell hard, and perhaps if he could just hold onto Arthur, if he could just keep him one night, one whole night, he'd own him forever. But the thought is laughable, absurd, because if there's ownership here it's Arthur's and he doesn't even know it.

Eames sometimes thinks Arthur is slipping through his fingers, one day at a time, until one morning, he knows, he'll wake and there'll be nothing to show Arthur was ever there, and it will be Eames with the broken heart, Eames with the hopes and expectations and dreams crushed underfoot, and how they would laugh, his conquests, his one-night loves and losses, how they would laugh.

And yet sometimes Arthur stays. Sometimes Eames wakes and the weight on his chest is unfamiliar and he'll freeze and reach a hand for the poker chip on the bedside table. And Arthur is warm and sleepy and when Eames rolls him onto his back and trails his fingers down his cheek, Arthur will blink and yawn and reach for Eames.

And when Eames growls "mine, mine" into Arthur's neck, Arthur will smile and whisper, "yours".


End file.
